


Awake

by becks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becks/pseuds/becks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The FBI sends Will Graham to Buenos Aries to recover Clarice Starling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

Clarice Starling lives in the back of her mind nowadays.

Her responses have been carefully practiced over the years but they're still ill-fitting, tight around the edges of her personality, rubbing blisters and abrasions all over her conscience. But she continues to make polite conversation in mixed company, she continues to hang her couture gowns up in the closet before she goes to bed, she continues to scratch her fingernails lightly across Hannibal's shoulders as he thrusts inside of her. But it's all done through what feels like a thick layer of cotton batting. She knows that something's wrong, she knows that she shouldn't be here, but just as soon as those thoughts begin to formulate in her mind, they ebb away on the flow of something synthetic and chemical and altogether too soothing to be real . . .

Hannibal lets her go out by herself, trusting that she'll return at the appointed hour. On this night, with the warm wind brushing lazily against her cheeks, she ends up at a bar in downtown Buenos Aires. She sits with her ankles neatly crossed against the metal edges of the barstool, enjoying a margarita that's heavy on the tequila. When she hears a man speaking English at the end of the bar, she automatically turns to look at him. He's talking to the bartender ("leaving in the morning, back to Florida") but his native language is the least interesting thing about him. The surface of his face has been shattered, puckers of scar tissue running from directly underneath his left eye all the way down, across the bridge of his nose, to interrupt the patchy stubble on his jawline. She counts the empty shot glasses that surround him (seven) and watches him down another one (eight). When the bartender goes to get his change, she watches the man slump down on his stool, his shoulders caving in underneath the weight of the world.

She doesn't know what makes her do it. Because, sure as shooting, Hannibal's not going to like it one bit. But she slides down off of the barstool and walks over to this man who looks like he saw too much action in his heyday. "Next one's on me," she smiles, raising two fingers to summon the bartender.

The man studiously avoids eye contact: "I was just on my way out . . ."

"One more," Clarice entreats with her best shit-shovelling West Virginian accent, the one that Hannibal cannot stand. This man's from the South though; she can tell. And she knows firsthand how good it can feel to find a kindred spirit in another hemisphere.

He looks for a second like he's going to argue but instead he resettles himself on his barstool and glances up at her from underneath thick black eyelashes. "One more."

"What's your name?" she asks after the bartender has brought two tequila cocktails over for them.

"Will." He doesn't ask for her name. Just as well. She wouldn't feel right lying to him.

"What brings you here?"

Will smiles -- not altogether pleasantly. "Just . . . looking for someone."

"Who?"

"Someone I used to know."

Clarice looks hard at him. "She must be something, get you to come all the way down here."

"You could say that." She's about to ask for more information but he redirects: "You live around here?"

"Right down the street."

"How long?"

"Few years now."

"What made you move here?"

She starts to say something but seems to realize mid-action that she doesn't actually have an answer for him. After a few moments, she looks down at the hardwood floor of the bar and says, more to herself than to the man sitting across from her: "Work maybe? I was having some problems at work."

Will braces himself on his elbows, leaning in towards Clarice. "You don't remember what brought you here?"

"It was all so long ago . . ." Clarice says dismissively.

"But there must have been something . . ."

"A boy, I suppose," Clarice laughs. "I came here for a boy."

Hannibal would not like being referred to as "a boy." But Hannibal's not here right now and the alcohol has made Clarice carefree and reckless. She feels the cotton batting being tugged slightly at the corners, thinning in spaces and allowing her to engage this man in conversation.

"Must be some boy," Will scoffs -- but there's something in his tone, an edge, that Clarice doesn't entirely understand.

"I suppose."

"Tell me about him."

Clarice sighs, staring at the neon blue lights buzzing above the bar. "He's . . ." She feels that tugging once again, feels her consciousness shifting. There's something wrong here . . . 

"He's different from other men."

"Different how?"

"He's . . ." Her eyebrows knit together in consternation. "He's someone that I wanted so desperately to impress once. When I was much younger."

"And now?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "I speak five languages now. I have season tickets to the Teatro Colón. I know the difference between a dessert fork and a salad fork."

"And those things are impressive?"

"Aren't they?"

"Maybe," Will chuckles, raising his glass to his lips. If it wasn't for the scarring, Clarice thinks, this man would be handsome. She considers asking him what happened but then realizes that might be insensitive. "I've never quite understood _etiquette_."

"It's good to know the correct way of doing things," Clarice says, an answer that flows so naturally that you'd never guess that it had been conditioned into her.

"Who says what's 'correct'?"

Clarice has never learned the answer to that question so she remains silent.

"I prefer saying what I'm thinking," Will says, taking another sip.

"Even if it's unspeakably rude?"

" _Especially_ if it's unspeakably rude."

Clarice smiles -- the first genuine one that she's exhibited in years.

"What did you say your name was?" he asks.

Clarice downs the rest of her martini in one quick gulp. "It was a pleasure talking to you, Will."

 

Will Graham follows the young woman back to her apartment building. He curls up in one of the lobby's overstuffed armchairs, pointedly ignoring the security guards who are whispering to one another and pointing at him. (He's used to that kind of treatment. He reaches up and tugs gently at his deformed lip that pulls up slightly on the right side, revealing the off-white half-moon roots of his teeth. He's not . . . _pleasant_ to look at nowadays.) He only has to wait a few minutes before he hears the tell-tale click of footsteps approaching him from behind.

"So that's Clarice," Will says, refusing to turn around.

"Not here," Hannibal responds in a tone that leaves no room for discussion. "She's under deep sedation. We can go upstairs."

Will nods and rises from the armchair. He hesitates before turning around. Hannibal hasn't seen him since his last encounter with Dolarhyde. He wonders if he's somehow managed to acquire photographs or if this will be the first time he sees the damage that's been done. He knows that he shouldn't care what Hannibal thinks of him aesthetically -- but considering their history together, Will figures that his concerns are only natural.

He turns around.

Hannibal hasn't changed much. There have been some minor surgical adjustments to prevent him from being instantly recognizable -- rhinoplasty broadening his nose, saline implants filling out his lips slightly, Botox injected into the corners of his eyes to make him appear younger. But he's not so different that Will wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd. Perhaps he did that on purpose.

So he hasn't seen photographs then, Will thinks to himself, watching as Hannibal silently catalogues the lacerations that cut across the surface of Will's face. Will's tempted to dip his head downwards -- but he manages to stand still, allowing Hannibal to take in the sight of his mutilated visage. It seems odd to him that Hannibal hasn't sought out information about what happened to Will in the wake of Dolarhyde's attack. Maybe he was distracted; Clarice certainly has her charms. Or perhaps he simply wanted to preserve the sanctity of this moment -- the grand reveal.

Hannibal takes a few steps closer, almost looks like he's about to reach out and run the pad of his thumb down the spiderweb of scarring on Will's left cheek, but manages to hold himself back. "Come upstairs, Will," he says gently.

And Will, fool that he's always been, complies.

 

Hannibal has prepared dessert -- presumably for him and Clarice but, seeing as she'll be unconscious for the next few hours, he plates the dish for the two of them. Miniature mincemeat pies with delicate lattice crusts. A dollop of thick vanilla cream on top, powdered sugar sprinkled over a drizzle of chocolate sauce around the edges on the plate. Will looks skeptically at the meal. "Who's in this one?" he asks, prodding at the mincemeat with a dessert fork.

"Mechanic from the Tigre Delta," Hannibal says nonchalantly, cutting off a small portion with the edge of his fork. "He won't be missed."

"Does Clarice know?"

Hannibal slips the forkful of pie into his mouth and closes his eyes. For a moment, he simply enjoys the taste of what he has created -- from the harvesting of the ingredients to the preparation of the dish. Then, grabbing the linen napkin from the table and dabbing softly at his lips: "She thinks I've reformed."

Will snorts, an unpleasant sound -- but one that Hannibal has come to expect from him. Will stabs his fork into the mincemeat pie and brings a chunk up to his mouth. If Hannibal is surprised, he doesn't show it.

"Do you approve?" Hannibal asks.

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to approve," Will says. "But, for what it's worth, it tastes very good."

They eat together in companionable silence for a few moments. It's difficult to believe that almost a decade has passed since the last time they sat together at a dinner table. Will tries to remember those days when he didn't know what Hannibal was -- but he finds himself grasping at wisps of smoke.

"Let her go," Will says suddenly.

"No."

"What did you have to do to get her to stay? Pump her full of drugs? Keep her locked up for months?" Will takes another bite of mincemeat pie, speaks with his mouth half-full. "I know what Stockholm Syndrome looks like, Hannibal."

Hannibal remains notably silent on the subject.

"You might be lonely but you don't need to keep her against her will."

"Because she's going to decide to stay with me of her own accord?" Hannibal asks. Will notices that he glances over at a crossbow that has been mounted on the wall.

"No. Because you don't need her." He pushes his plate towards the center of the table, completely clean except for the chocolate sauce garnish.

"Come to sacrifice yourself, Will?"

"Maybe. It's not much of a sacrifice though."

Hannibal stares at Will, while Will keeps his gaze steadfastly locked on the taupe tablecloth. Finally, Hannibal picks up the two plates and carries them out to the kitchen. Will releases the breath that he's been holding in a sharp exhale. He unconsciously rubs the palm of his hand against the rough surface of his face, pressing against the bumps and ridges that he finds there. It's become a habit over the past few years, something that keeps him anchored in challenging circumstances, that brings him back to the reality of the life that he's been living.

Hannibal returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pours for both of them.

"Why do you think I would ever exchange her for you?" Hannibal asks, looking pointedly at Will. "Damaged goods."

To his credit, Will does not react to the singularly hurtful comment. Instead, he answers: "Because you didn't have to kidnap me to get me here. Because you don't have to lie to me. Because you don't have to slip anything in this wine to take me to bed."

"You want me to take you to bed, Will?" Hannibal asks, moderately intrigued.

"Yes."

"Does Jack Crawford know that you're here?"

"He sent me to South America to see if I could find you. I'm going to conveniently disappear."

"Yes, you are," Hannibal assures him. "I've yet to decide exactly why you're going to conveniently disappear though."

Will gulps down the wine, not even pausing to enjoy the taste. "If you let her go, will she remember?"

"Not enough for me to get caught."

Will glances up at Hannibal, the rare moment of eye contact between them. "Take me to bed?"

He means for it to come out as a command. Instead it comes out as a plea.

Hannibal smiles and puts his half-finished glass of wine down on the table. He leads the way into the master bedroom -- and Will realizes that Clarice has been sedated and locked away in the guest bedroom for the night. Hannibal had been planning this moment since before he came downstairs. Presumptuous bastard.

But Will doesn't argue when Hannibal gently pulls him closer, pressing his lips to the injured side of Will's mouth. Will begins undressing Hannibal. He recalls the many times he pulled too hard at a button, tugged too forcefully on fabric, accidentally tossed his suit coat onto the hardwood floor. Each time, he would be gently reprimanded until he became accustomed to removing each article of clothing with care and consideration. Even after all these years, Will makes quick work of the three-piece suit while Hannibal nods his approval. Shrugging out of his own button-down shirt and threadbare jeans, Will stands naked before Hannibal -- a mess of stab wounds.

"I'll probably never say this again," Hannibal prefaces, resting his hands gently on Will's waist. "But I prefer you like this."

Will already knows that; Hannibal was the one who did this to him after all, wielding Dolarhyde like a weapon. Still, he allows himself to be led over to the bed and pushed down onto the mattress. Hannibal comes to rest in between his thighs. "It's been a long time since I've been with a man, Will," Hannibal says, his breath warm against Will's neck.

Will takes the hint, gains the leverage necessary to push Hannibal back onto the mattress, switching their positions. "Are you ready?" Will asks. Hannibal makes a noncommittal noise that Will chooses to interpret as yes. (Of course. If Hannibal had the foresight to sedate Clarice in the guest bedroom, he definitely had the foresight to use lubricant before coming downstairs.) Hannibal wraps his legs around Will's ribcage, allowing Will to settle into position before tentatively pressing inside of him. Will closes his eyes and pauses, just the glans of his cock having breeched his partner. He forages through his eidetic memory, trying to recall if Hannibal had ever been this tight back when they had been together. But he cannot, for the life of him, remember. Slowly, he begins undulating his hips, only allowing the tip of his cock to push inside of Hannibal each time.

Hannibal maintains his composure. But Will can tell that he's only doing that to be difficult.

Will leans forward and whispers to Hannibal: "This is what you really need, isn't it? You need someone who's going to fuck you into the mattress." He presses in a little bit further, watches while Hannibal's fingers contract, clenching slightly in the bed sheets.

"You've changed, Will."

"It's been over a decade, Hannibal."

"I'm not complaining."

That's all the incentive that Will needs to push all of the way in, bottoming out in the limitless warmth of the man that he'd once thought he could love. As he begins to thrust, he continues to whisper: "You're going to let Clarice go."

"Why should I?"

"Because she can't give you this." He repositions and thrusts back in at a slight angle. Hannibal bites his lower lip and Will can tell that he's doing his utmost to remain silent. When Hannibal regains his tenuous grasp on his dignity, he responds:

"What makes you so sure of that?"

Will laughs and leans down to kiss Hannibal's shoulder. When Hannibal comes, he shudders slightly and allows his head to lull back against the pillows. He's vulnerable in those few moments -- and Will thinks hard about snapping his neck and returning to Quantico. He could spend the next few months helping Clarice through recovery (possibly getting some therapy himself in the process). The narrative that would make its way into the tabloids would set both of them back on-track with the FBI. Because who's going to phase out a woman who was kidnapped and forced into sexual slavery by a cannibalistic serial killer? No, there would be an assortment of commendations and new cases waiting for them upon their return. And thus would Will Graham and Clarice Starling make their triumphant return to law enforcement . . .

"Will?"

Will looks down at Hannibal.

"Let me stay?"

Will's voice is small and unfamiliar.

Hannibal nods.

 

Will awakens for a few moments to the sound of a string being plucked -- a deep, reverberating tone.

But the day has been very long.

He falls back asleep.

 

Clarice Starling had forgotten what it feels like to be awake. To be wide awake with the world staring back at her. She looks out over the fields of Shiloh National Park, breathing in deeply and tasting freedom at the back of her throat. The FBI had a field day interrogating her when she returned to Quantico; unfortunately, she didn't have much to tell them. The last thing that she remembered clearly was Muskrat Farm. There were smudged images from the subsequent years: the glimmer of silverware and the blur of neon lights. The sounds of applause. The brush of silk. The press of a hand (warm, comfortable, familiar) against her own. 

And then she was suddenly wide awake: blindfolded and deposited in the backseat of a taxi, left on the front steps of the American Embassy of Buenos Aires. How had she gotten to Buenos Aires? What had she been doing for the past few years? She couldn't remember. Not a single moment. She sat through polygraph tests that determined the veracity of her statements. She was given Sodium Pentothal and Ethyl Alcohol and even put under hypnosis but her memories had been deeply buried inside the recesses of her mind. Clarice Starling wouldn't be any help to them.

With no reason to dismiss her (but more than enough reasons to keep her under watchful supervision), the FBI kept her on as a desk jockey, writing up profiles from the safety of a felt-walled cubicle. She occasionally lectured at the Academy; all of the students wanted to meet the woman who had put down Jame Gumb. Clarice was satisfied with this arrangement. She had seen more than enough action for her lifetime.

She heard that Will Graham had gone missing, the man who had caught Hannibal Lecter the first time around. She was shown a photograph of him. No, she'd never seen him before. No, she didn't know where he was. No, she doubted he was still alive.

"Starling!"

Ardelia, standing next to Bloody Pond, blanket laid out on the grass. Sandwiches wrapped in saran wrap. The crusts cut off. Peter Pan peanut butter smeared between slices of Wonder Bread with a butter knife. She'd made them herself.

Clarice takes one last look towards the open sky.

She runs.


End file.
